Ruth Stickney(Jan. 22, 1920– Sept. 17, 2010)
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral, Fargo, ND
September 25, 2010
+ I can not tell you how truly honored to be here this morning to commemorate the long and wonderful life of Ruth Stickney and to help commend this wonderful woman to God. I got to know Ruth (and Tom, of course) somewhat well over the last few years. I don’t need to tell anyone here that she was truly a remarkable woman—and I don’t say that lightly. She was a woman of great strength and of contagious warmth. There was no doubt about that.
Whenever I would visit her, she would look at me with that brilliant spark in her eyes and would welcome me as though she had known me all her life. I liked that. In these last few weeks, I can’t tell you how many times I would stand at her bedside and, as she awoke, she would look up at me and she would just shine. Oftentimes we didn’t say a thing to each other. I just stroked her hair and she just look up at me and it was beautiful. For that time I spent with her, I was important to her. I think she felt that way about everyone who came into her life. And every time I visited her, there was always that remarkable life dancing in her eyes.
This morning, Ruth is, I think, still here, in our midst, celebrating her life with us. And we should truly celebrate her incredible life. It was a good life. It was a life full of meaning and purpose and love. All her life, Ruth lived life to the fullest and drank deeply from that life.
And it was a life of faith in God, as well. For Ruth, her faith was important to her and I think that faith continues on with those of us who are here celebrating her life.
In this morning’s Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say those wonderful warm words of welcome. “In my Father’s place there are many mansions.” In other translations, we hear, instead of mansions, “dwelling places.” In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. I like that idea of mansions instead. After all, would the God of love that Ruth served throughout her life, who saw someone like Ruth through ninety years of life, provide her with anything less than a mansion? I don’t think so. And I am fully certain that God has indeed provided a mansion for Ruth. Can you imagine what that place must be like? Can you imagine the music and the beauty that fills that place at this moment? Can you imagine the joy she must feel right at this moment? That is probably the best consolation we can take away from today.
After all, that long life of hers is not over by any means. It has only blossomed into its fullest meaning. In Christ, Ruth is now fully and completely herself. She is whole.Of course that doesn’t make any of this any easier for those who are left behind. Whenever anyone we love dies, we are going to feel pain. That’s just a part of life.
But like any pain, like any sorrow, because of Christ, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well. They too will pass away. This belief that pain is temporary is what gets us through these hard times. This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. We believe in a faith that surpasses death. When we look to Jesus in these moments, we know that yes, he was betrayed, he suffered and he died. Those who loved him felt a despair like no other despair. On that Friday afternoon in which he died, few of them could ever imagine that there would ever be joy or hope again. And yet, on that Sunday morning, their tears were turned to smiles and their sorrow was turned to joy.
That is what we hope in as well. That is where our faith lies. When the Anglican priest and poet George Herbert said, “Christ dries our tears with his grave clothes,” he wasn’t just speaking poetically. He was saying that, truly, Christ comes to us in the midst of our losses and shows us the way to Life—to a life reborn out of death. Into a life without end. It is a faith that can show us with startling reality every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, as I’m sure Ruth would tell you—every tear will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear like a bad dream upon awakening.
Ruth knew this faith in her own life and we too can cling to it in a time like this. I like to draw our attention occasionally the words of the service we are celebrating today from The Book of Common Prayer. Oftentimes, I think, we don’t really listen to these words. But these words are important. They were important to Ruth, I can tell you. She was a good and loyal Episcopalian who received great consolation form the words we find in the Book of Common Prayer. And in this service later, we will pray some wonderful words together. In the prayer called “The Commendation.” we will pray,
Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,
where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life everlasting.
Those words meant much to Ruth and they should to us as well. This morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in our faith—in the faith that, with Christ, Ruth is in a place of unending light. There, Ruth is complete and whole and beautiful at this moment. Truly her beauty is, to quote the poet Anne Bradstreet, “bright and clear.” She is in a place where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but truly life everlasting. And let us be glad that one day we too will be sharing with Ruth in that everlasting life.
In the commendation, we hear:
“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
Today, when we leave this service, we too will be singing, “Alleluia” as we sing “Jesus Christ is risen today.” Ruth, in the fact of her dying, also sang her song of alleluia. We saw that alleluia in that light shining in her eyes. We saw that alleluia in the amazing strength she had throughout her life and even in her last moments. Alleluia we sing today. Alleluia, she sings today. That alleluia gives voice to the joy we have today in the midst of our sadness, and it is that joy that will hold us up and sustains us with that “Ruth-like” strength to meet the days to come.
“Even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
What greater strength can we have than that? Amen.
Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral, Fargo, ND
September 25, 2010
+ I can not tell you how truly honored to be here this morning to commemorate the long and wonderful life of Ruth Stickney and to help commend this wonderful woman to God. I got to know Ruth (and Tom, of course) somewhat well over the last few years. I don’t need to tell anyone here that she was truly a remarkable woman—and I don’t say that lightly. She was a woman of great strength and of contagious warmth. There was no doubt about that.
Whenever I would visit her, she would look at me with that brilliant spark in her eyes and would welcome me as though she had known me all her life. I liked that. In these last few weeks, I can’t tell you how many times I would stand at her bedside and, as she awoke, she would look up at me and she would just shine. Oftentimes we didn’t say a thing to each other. I just stroked her hair and she just look up at me and it was beautiful. For that time I spent with her, I was important to her. I think she felt that way about everyone who came into her life. And every time I visited her, there was always that remarkable life dancing in her eyes.
This morning, Ruth is, I think, still here, in our midst, celebrating her life with us. And we should truly celebrate her incredible life. It was a good life. It was a life full of meaning and purpose and love. All her life, Ruth lived life to the fullest and drank deeply from that life.
And it was a life of faith in God, as well. For Ruth, her faith was important to her and I think that faith continues on with those of us who are here celebrating her life.
In this morning’s Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say those wonderful warm words of welcome. “In my Father’s place there are many mansions.” In other translations, we hear, instead of mansions, “dwelling places.” In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. I like that idea of mansions instead. After all, would the God of love that Ruth served throughout her life, who saw someone like Ruth through ninety years of life, provide her with anything less than a mansion? I don’t think so. And I am fully certain that God has indeed provided a mansion for Ruth. Can you imagine what that place must be like? Can you imagine the music and the beauty that fills that place at this moment? Can you imagine the joy she must feel right at this moment? That is probably the best consolation we can take away from today.
After all, that long life of hers is not over by any means. It has only blossomed into its fullest meaning. In Christ, Ruth is now fully and completely herself. She is whole.Of course that doesn’t make any of this any easier for those who are left behind. Whenever anyone we love dies, we are going to feel pain. That’s just a part of life.
But like any pain, like any sorrow, because of Christ, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well. They too will pass away. This belief that pain is temporary is what gets us through these hard times. This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. We believe in a faith that surpasses death. When we look to Jesus in these moments, we know that yes, he was betrayed, he suffered and he died. Those who loved him felt a despair like no other despair. On that Friday afternoon in which he died, few of them could ever imagine that there would ever be joy or hope again. And yet, on that Sunday morning, their tears were turned to smiles and their sorrow was turned to joy.
That is what we hope in as well. That is where our faith lies. When the Anglican priest and poet George Herbert said, “Christ dries our tears with his grave clothes,” he wasn’t just speaking poetically. He was saying that, truly, Christ comes to us in the midst of our losses and shows us the way to Life—to a life reborn out of death. Into a life without end. It is a faith that can show us with startling reality every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, as I’m sure Ruth would tell you—every tear will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear like a bad dream upon awakening.
Ruth knew this faith in her own life and we too can cling to it in a time like this. I like to draw our attention occasionally the words of the service we are celebrating today from The Book of Common Prayer. Oftentimes, I think, we don’t really listen to these words. But these words are important. They were important to Ruth, I can tell you. She was a good and loyal Episcopalian who received great consolation form the words we find in the Book of Common Prayer. And in this service later, we will pray some wonderful words together. In the prayer called “The Commendation.” we will pray,
Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,
where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life everlasting.
Those words meant much to Ruth and they should to us as well. This morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in our faith—in the faith that, with Christ, Ruth is in a place of unending light. There, Ruth is complete and whole and beautiful at this moment. Truly her beauty is, to quote the poet Anne Bradstreet, “bright and clear.” She is in a place where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but truly life everlasting. And let us be glad that one day we too will be sharing with Ruth in that everlasting life.
In the commendation, we hear:
“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
Today, when we leave this service, we too will be singing, “Alleluia” as we sing “Jesus Christ is risen today.” Ruth, in the fact of her dying, also sang her song of alleluia. We saw that alleluia in that light shining in her eyes. We saw that alleluia in the amazing strength she had throughout her life and even in her last moments. Alleluia we sing today. Alleluia, she sings today. That alleluia gives voice to the joy we have today in the midst of our sadness, and it is that joy that will hold us up and sustains us with that “Ruth-like” strength to meet the days to come.
“Even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
What greater strength can we have than that? Amen.
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